


Tea and Cupcakes

by Minxkat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxkat/pseuds/Minxkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks it's the cupcakes.</p><p>A post-Reichenbach reunion fic.</p><p> </p><p>  <i> I'm playing with Bondlock, because the younger brother is convenient.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Cupcakes

John doesn't want tea. Not at Mycroft’s at any rate. They are back on talking terms, but all that means is that he won’t turn around and walk away in the opposite direction every time he sees Mycroft. It just means that every now and then when he can’t turn around, or when he does turn around and finds Lestrade or Quentin instead, he will tolerate a stilted awkward conversation, revolving around milk, sugar, sandwiches and cake.

This seems to have become a monthly thing for Mycroft, extending an invitation. Out of a sheer desire to be stubborn, John accepts only every alternate month. He went last month. Ergo, he will decline this month. He can cover an extra shift, he thinks, or stay home and watch telly. 

Quentin calls him a day after he ignores Mycroft’s call and text and email. He doesn't like ignoring Quentin. He remembers when they first met, after Sherlock’s funeral, how distraught the man looked. They've met a couple of times after that – for a drink at Quentin’s local, lunch near Barts’ once, dinner at Quentin’s place with his boyfriend James, a taciturn individual that Mycroft doesn’t seem to be very impressed by. It takes some months for John to realise that he is possibly in the secret service, as is Quentin, which explains Mycroft’s annoyance. He isn’t known to be fond of the secret service after all. 

Meetings with Quentin are only a little less uncomfortable than meetings with Mycroft. They have nothing in common, barring Sherlock. And John does not want to go there. So they pick at their food, talk of the weather, rugby, the premier league, the cricket, a bye-election, and anything else in the day’s newspaper. James doesn’t talk much – at least they have their military service in common. But then he supposed James’ activities might be classified.

But Quentin sounds so much like Sherlock, that when he asks John can’t say no. Even if it is tea at Mycroft’s.

Tea is served in a set that looks old, John thinks wonderingly. The blue paisley pattern at the rim has faded. He hadn't imagined Mycroft owned anything that could look even remotely – shabby. There is no other word for the china.

The sandwiches are nice, wafer-thin as expected but bland. There are no chutneys this time, the last time there had been a tart mango one. And the little cupcakes are not cream covered. The last time they were topped with fluffy whipped cream and candied cherries. Some have a light glaze this time though. And some of them are brushed with a fine dusting that John on biting into realises is a sugar and spice mix. 

John realises suddenly then that on all the previous occasions the meal had been one he had liked. It’s a little bland today, except the spiced cupcake. That tastes nice, he thinks, and has another one.  
Quentin is babbling on about a new movie – a murder mystery. The reviews are good, but they have all seen it and been disappointed.

“It should have been the girlfriend,” Lestrade says from near the fireplace, where he’s poking at the fire.

“Too improbable,” Quentin shrugs, “And she had no motive anyway.”

“Sherlock would have found a motive,” John said suddenly.

“I can think of three,”’ Comes a voice from near the door.

It’s Quentin’s voice. John tells himself, and turns to the younger man, who is sitting at the window seat, away from the door. His ears are ringing.

“Hi.”

Quentin - yes. 

“John,” the voice is softer now, and he tells himself Quentin’s lips are moving. But they’re not. 

Quite the ventriloquist, aren’t you, he wants to say, but he can’t open his mouth. His throat is closing up. His entire body is shutting down. 

The cupcake slips out of his numb fingers, and falls to the floor, crumbling just a little. It’s not too messy he think thankfully and somewhere he wonders if this is why there are no chutneys and cream cakes. That would have been messy on Mycroft’s carpet. And that’s why the china is so old. Because if he could only just bring himself to move, he might just throw that teacup at the man standing in front of him. Just to know he really is there.

Everyone is quiet.

He’s not there, John decides. It’s the spiced cupcake. He should have stopped with one. He must have had four or five. Nutmeg has hallucinogenic properties in large doses. He’s not had a large dose, theoretically, but one can never tell. Perhaps he’s unduly susceptible.

“Sorry about the cupcake. I – I could clean that up,” John says, a little hoarsely, and then without waiting for a response, continues, “I should be leaving. I don’t feel very well. It’s the nutmeg. I’d best avoid it in future.”

No one is saying anything.

“He’s not really here,” John says to himself, and then realises he has spoken aloud.

“He’s here,” Mycroft’s voice is quiet but commanding. 

“Oh no,” John says, “The nutmeg.” He rises and finds himself teetering. His legs feel like jelly, and all the sounds around him are coalescing into a loud noise in his head. Definitely the nutmeg, he thinks.

“Nutmeg?” Mycroft sounds bewildered.

“Is that a password?” Quentin asks. This time his lips move. No more ventriloquism then.

“A safe word?” James says.

There’s an impatient growl from near the door.

Lestrade is by his side suddenly, “Sit, John,” he’s saying. Quentin comes to his other side.

“No,” John tells him, “I’m overdosing on the spice mix,” he announces. And feels quite proud that he is able to say this without slurring or any confusion, “It was in the cupcakes,” he clarifies, “I’m seeing things,” he adds.

“Oh John!”

He looks up at the apparition. It’s very good, he decides. His brain seems to be functioning with much better clarity. Maybe this was how the nicotine patches helped Sherlock.

“I should leave,” he says again and stands, shrugging off Lestrade and Quentin’s arms.

A pale hand rests on his shoulder. It’s warm and solid, and as it comes into contact with the exposed skin at the side of his throat, he knows.

It’s not the nutmeg.

“It’s the n-nutmeg,” he says. He knows his voice is breaking and he can’t frame a full sentence now and he hates that.

“It’s cinnamon and mace, not nutmeg,” Sherlock says impatiently, and pushes him back down on the sofa.

“Mace too,” John says, “S-same plant.” But he sits. And he grasps the slender wrist over his shoulder, and blinks into the familiar features. He lets out a little sigh. He feels funny, his head is heavy, his ears are ringing, and his heart is doing little skipping things.

“I’m really here,” Sherlock says, “I’m not a product of your spice-fevered imagination. The cupcakes are edible.”

John hits him then. He can’t help it. One moment he’s sitting, feeling Sherlock’s fingers on his shoulder, his wrist in his hand, the next he’s risen and landed a bunched fist at Sherlock’s smug little mouth.

Sherlock teeters back but recovers his balance. Someone shouts; two people perhaps. John’s ears are still ringing, “Bl-bloody wanker,” he mumbles. And then gives up. He’s incredibly tired now and he can’t stand. There’s too much shouting around him, he decides. He lets out a tiny sigh and closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He feels his legs sinking and the last thing he remembers is Sherlock’s hands on him, and the familiar bergamot and lavender fragrance.

When he wakes up, he’s in the same room, lying on the sofa. His face and neck and chest feel damp. His shirt is undone. Quentin is holding a warm, wet towel on the bared portion of his chest.

And Sherlock is sitting by him, biting into a cupcake. He has a very slight bruise where John hit him.

"John,” Sherlock says quietly.

“Y-you’re back,” he stutters and feels silly. But then he’s done silly pretty much all afternoon.

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

“I hoped you would,” he murmurs, and feels the grey haze rings his vision again.

Sherlock helps him sit up. He sits with his eyes closed for a while. Then Sherlock is by his side, still smelling of bergamot and lavender. He opens his eyes, and blinks. His cheeks feel damp. The wet towel, he tells himself, but his cheeks are growing damper.

“I’m back,” Sherlock says again, and gently swipes the tear tracks off John’s cheek.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Nutmeg is indeed supposed to have hallucinogenic properties if taken in large doses. I'm not sure how much a large dose is. It's used in snuff and it's also smoked in some Eastern cultures. It's perfectly safe as a spice, where naturally the grammage used is not large.
> 
> Nutmeg and mace are both obtained from the nutmeg tree. 
> 
> That's about all I know on the subject :)


End file.
